


These Men Who Have Flown

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [9]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-17
Updated: 2006-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuing adventures of Finn McKay and his intrepid (inept?) caretakers, John Sheppard and Rodney McKay.  Featuring guest appearances by Jake and Martha McGillion, Laura Cadman, and Mrs. Gunderson's brownies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Men Who Have Flown

**Author's Note:**

> This story would never have been finished without the encouragement, beta skills, and mad, mad "I think . . . not" skills of Dogeared. Jenn also provided the images in parts two and three, and for that it's possible I may have to marry her. **eta** Illustration of Finn's toys provided by Kasche, and cover by Aesc! Bwee!

It's 2.17am on Finn's second night in Iowa when John notices that his own bedroom ceiling badly needs a coat of paint. He settles one hand behind his head, thinks of possible colors; notes the crack in the plaster that runs from the door toward the window; tries to figure out whether the dark shape on the west wall is a shadow, a patch of damp, or a creature from the fathomless depths of his own insanity. Sighing, he scratches his belly with his free hand, rucking up his t-shirt, and listens for Finn's inevitable wail to sound from the nursery. "Rodney?" he whispers. "You awake?"

"Hmmm."

John chews his own lip for a moment. "I think I'm – maybe - "

"Hmmm?"

"Freaking out?"

"Oh no." With an uncharacteristic burst of energy, Rodney rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow, and pokes John viciously in the chest. "No," he hisses, voice modified to the new pitch they've both adopted these past two days – their 'please, God, don't wake the baby' voice. "It is _so_ my turn to be the one freaking out."

"You freaked out before breakfast!" John whispers back.

"And you had your turn right after lunch!"

"Yeah – well . . . we've had dinner since then!"

"No." Rodney shakes his head. "It's my turn. I'm claiming my turn. You can't freak out until I'm done . . . . freaking out." He flops onto his back again, breathing hard. "After all, what the hell is 2am for if not – " He waves a hand as if to encompass all the potential freaking out that's hovering between them.

John sighs. "Well - what're you freaking out _about_?" he asks.

"Orthodontics," Rodney murmurs, sounding miserable. "How much it'll cost to fix his teeth if they grow in crooked."

John frowns at the ceiling. "He doesn't even _have_ teeth yet."

"But he will." Rodney protests helplessly. "And one of us has to tell him about sex one day, and God, we're neither of us really – and which college does he go to? East or west coast? And there's global warming – who knows if there'll _be_ an east coast in the same way we understand it considering the current state of – "

"Whoah . . ." John says softly, brushing the back of his hand against Rodney's.

"And then there's the state of the economy – if trends hold he'll face – "

"Rodney."

" – unprecedented competition for – "

" _Rodney_."

"What?"

"Take a breath, buddy."

Rodney does the best he can – a hitching, uneven attempt - then swallows. "What're you freaking out about?" he asks at last.

"That I'll drop him," John whispers.

"That's _it_?" Rodney hisses, turning his head in John's direction. "I _hate_ you."

"Okay?"

"Except I don't, of course I don't, what am I saying?" Rodney looks back at the ceiling and scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm just – it's just that I'm gonna screw this up. I'll give him complexes and he'll end up hating broccoli – "

"If he's an ounce of sense, he will – " John mutters darkly.

" – and he'll do drugs and become a hippie and make _art_ about how his father couldn't win a Nobel prize before he was 40. Macaroni and _condom_ art and - "

"Condom?"

" – he'll become famous and everyone will hate me for screwing up his childhood, and – "

"Rodney."

Rodney sighs miserably. "At least I'm better at dealing with sleep deprivation than you."

John blinks, unable to follow Rodney's bouncing train of thought. "How d'you figure?"

"Oh I don't know, the fact that I thrived on three, maybe four hours of sleep every night through graduate school?"

"And did you forget the part where I was in a combat zone? Hardly the place to grab eight solid hours."

Rodney tenses, and a long, aching silence spins out between them. "No," he manages eventually. "I didn't forget. I just – " He shifts against the mattress. "Don't like to think of you there."

"Jesus." John rolls to kiss the side of Rodney's mouth once, twice, lets his hand drift to cup his jaw. "It's gonna be okay." He kisses Rodney's temple, dry lips against warm skin.

"Yeah." Rodney elbows him, perhaps to distract from the fact that his voice isn't entirely steady. "So long as you don't drop him."

"So long as I don't do that," John agrees, rolling onto his back again but shifting so that their elbows still touch. He thinks he maybe feels a soft kiss against his shoulder just before he falls asleep, but it could just be his imagination. He smiles, regardless.

*****

They are, John's convinced by the end of the week, two of the most hapless caretakers ever inflicted on a child. Rodney's better at diaper changing, having had some practice out in California, but John refuses to shirk his share and he's five changes in before he really get the hang of things. By then he owes Rodney two blowjobs and a backrub in order to convince him to never, ever speak of the fact he used duct tape to fasten the damn thing on the first time around, but since they're never going to have the energy for sex again, it's a pretty good deal.

It takes Rodney the better part of the week to master the art of burping the kid – a situation that leaves everyone red in the face and waving their fists, even if Finn's the only one who actually screams. Things aren't helped by the fact that Finn belches like a trucker if John so much as glances at him, making Rodney scowl and crack biting little jokes about the fact that _his_ superpower's going to be teaching the kid to fart tunes.

They both run to the internet twenty-something times a day to check whether Finn should be puking and peeing and shrieking as much as he is. Rodney searches fruitlessly for mathematical equations that calculate the rate at which an eight-and-a-half-pound infant should be filling his pants, and tries to develop his own when his peers let him down. Finn pees on John almost every night at bath-time, and pees on Rodney just because he can, but he also falls asleep with a hapless snuffle that mesmerizes them both. They're exhausted, smell of formula, and their diet dwindles rapidly to Lucky Charms, Doritos and peanuts, but Rodney is smitten and John concedes he's edging toward something like satisfaction himself. Trying to figure out the ins and outs of why does nothing but give him a headache, so he gives up on thinking and measures out his day in increments of Rodney's gratitude and the clutch of Finn's hands around his fingers.

It's day five before he has an opportunity to leave the house. 8am, and Rodney's settled in the armchair with Finn, cradling him with strange, confused fascination as he watches him guzzle formula. Seizing his moment, John makes some observation about the fence by the barn, pulls on boots and a thick coat, yells he'll be back in a bit, and steps out onto the porch. He's momentarily bewildered by the expanse of space before him, the antithesis of five days bounded by the nursery and the kitchen sink. Cold, sharp air fills his lungs – there's an inch or so of snow on the ground, and the sky's a rolling, thoughtful gray. He studies the clean swell of the land, watches as a pair of cardinals squabble mid-flight, then shakes his head, focuses, and strides over to the barn, rooting out a hacksaw before he heads down toward the creek.

It takes him half an hour to find what he's looking for and he just about chokes himself on thick, balsam branches as he works, but before the hour's up he drags a fir tree back to the farmhouse feeling like the best damn provider in four counties. He sets it on the porch, knocking snow from its branches as he rights it, and shoves the saw on the windowsill so he can better survey his prize.

The kitchen door opens and Rodney peers outside. "What are you – "

"Christmas tree," John replies, grinning proudly and gesturing at the fir.

Rodney blinks. "Christmas?"

"Four days from now, buddy."

"It is?" Rodney rubs his forehead like the act might loosen something inside. "It's Christmas? In four days?"

John nods. "December 25, every year."

Rodney blinks, looking agitated. "Christmas. I – it's . . . wow." He swallows. "I need to go into town."

"Okay." John stomps his boots to dislodge dirt and snow and whatever else he trudged through on his quest, then bends to untie his laces.

"Yes – town, I'll – I'll take the truck so that if you - you know, if he needs anything, tracheotomy, that sort of thing, you can – . . ."

"He asleep?" John pries off the boots, steps inside the kitchen in just his socks and pulls the door closed against the bitter breath of wind that has nefarious designs on his toes.

"Hmmm?" Rodney looks at him blankly. "Oh, yes. Yes, out for the count – I'll just – he needs diapers, and we should probably- "

"Formula," John adds, and reaches for a used envelope from the kitchen table, scribbles a list on the back.

"Of course." Rodney fumbles his way into his own jacket. "He should be quiet for a couple of hours, and he's dry, and I burped him and um . . . You'll be okay?"

"Swell," John reassures him. "Go on."

Rodney nods. "Couple of – yeah . . . " And he's out the door, still mumbling to himself as he hurries down the path to the truck.

*****

Rodney's gone more than a couple of hours. John calls his cell phone twice after lunch, puzzled by the delay, fearing some existential breakdown's crippled Rodney with indecision, leaving him to wander aimlessly between baby wipes and cotton balls in Target, aisle ten, muttering about the environmental impact of disposable diapers. His calls route to voicemail both times, which probably means all's right with the world and Rodney's on the phone to California, hurling invective at whomever he can reach – but there's a faint whisper of unease at the back of John's brain, and he doesn't like to think of himself as a guy who worries. Instead he focuses on Finn – sets up a play center that has dangling, plastic shapes the kid can kick, amuses himself for far longer than he cares to admit by talking back to the kid as if every gurgle, shriek and spit-bubble word is one side of a riveting two-way conversation.

By dark, he's actually worried, especially since it's beginning to snow, but there's Finn's butt to change and Finn's belly to fill, and all in all a baby turns out to be a pretty handy distraction from an emasculating freak-out. He's upstairs in the nursery when he hears the truck rumble back up the lane to the farmhouse, but Finn's about a minute from giving up the fight and setting his head down, so he can't just pound downstairs and check that the truck's in one piece and Rodney's not suffering from amnesia or a random urge to go back to California. So instead, he keeps singing 'Crazy', rocking Finn and willing the kid's eyes to close so he can go and yell at his father, and listens with half an ear to Rodney making four or five trips to and from the truck, swearing colorfully and dumping what sounds like all the formula in eastern Iowa onto the kitchen floor.

In Rodney's defense, he looks pretty guilty once John makes it downstairs.

"Hi."

John glances at the shopping bags piled by the table. "Couple of hours?"

Rodney gestures helplessly. "Yes, yes I know, I know, and I should've called, but I forgot, there was so much I was supposed to – but I have formula and, um, diapers. Two sizes in case he grows."

"Right." John arches an eyebrow. "So where've you been?"

"The mall."

He blinks. "The mall?"

"Christmas shopping." Rodney navigates a path to the table, meandering between bags from an array of stores. "I didn't realize, not with everything, that it was almost Christmas, you see, and I hadn't had time to do any shopping and I thought – well it didn't seem right for him to have a Christmas without any presents, even if he doesn't remember any of it, since I mean – we will?" He looked up, wetting his lips, frowning slightly.

"You bought him presents?" John can feel all the tight, worried places in his body begin to loosen, and dammit, Rodney does this to him every fucking time.

"Yes! Yes – I . . . let's see." Rodney rummages in a bag. "Pajamas with feet, because they looked warm, don't they look warm? And um – see, this pair has airplanes on it, and this pair has rocket ships, and I thought that was sort of fun, you and me, and this one has tractors, which I think you'll agree," he screws up his face in disdain," are completely revolting but he's growing up on a farm and . . . " He bends and pulls out a handful of other things. "Um – onesies, and socks, lots of socks, and some hats, because it's going to get colder, and a big thick snow suit in case we're trapped in a blizzard and have to hike for help, and a tiny pair of boots because well, I – they're cool, even though he'll grow out of them in the next five minutes, and then there were some toys – ah, here," he pulls out a monkey and an elephant " – he can chew on them, they're made for chewing on, and they're little, like he is, and I bought some books – " more grabbing for bags " – they're cardboard and he can't read them yet, of course, but I thought we could read them to him and start shaping his mind from an early age, so uh – books about scientists, Newton, Curie, one about Amelia Earhart – do you like her? – and some about musicians, although we should maybe save the one about Lennon 'cause it's pretty trippy. And a CD – I bought Patsy Cline since he seems to like you singing that – and some DVDs . . . Baby Einstein? Doesn't that sound promising? And um, a blanket." He holds it out to John. "It's soft."

John takes the blanket, rubs it between his fingers as a distraction from the fact that there's a warmth building behind his ribs fit to shatter them. "He'll like it," he manages, smiling.

"I really am sorry I didn't call." Rodney wades through the bags, snagging the toe of his boot in the handle of a Barnes and Noble tote, almost falling flat on his face, but recovering his balance just before he can crash into a can of formula and a bib that says 'Daddy's Little Genius.' He shakes his foot, curses inventively, gets himself untangled. "I just – " He stands up in front of John, looking a little uncertain. "I want him to know he's wanted, and I don't know how you tell a baby he's wanted since he doesn't – " he gestures, big circular motions with one hand " - _talk_ or show that he understands or even gurgle the same way twice, and I just – "

John pulls him in to kiss him, hand at the back of Rodney's neck, fingers warm against the chill that's still clinging to Rodney's skin after hauling in all the bags from the truck. "He knows," he murmurs at last, looking Rodney in the eye.

"You think?"

"Yeah, I think."

"Okay." Rodney half turns to look at the mess he's created. "I bought wrapping paper. You wanna help?"

John laughs, leans his forehead against Rodney's temple. "Sure," he agrees. "I'll go fetch the tape."

*****

[ ](http://photobucket.com/)

*****

They wrap until just after midnight, since Rodney's determined Finn not see any of his gifts in their raw, naked state. The time passes quickly – they debate the merits of pepper spray and cattle prods as defensible tools of the harried Christmas shopper, get hungry about 11, and John makes grilled cheese sandwiches while Rodney demonstrates that paper cranes are for chumps – the real art worth perfecting is the elusive paper rhino. Rodney eventually calls a halt to everything while he checks that equal numbers of gifts are wrapped in each of the four different kinds of paper he brought home, and John almost falls asleep in his chair, waking up when his head snaps back. Twitching, he asks where the firemen are.

"Firemen?" Rodney asks, blinking. He has a piece of tape stuck in his hair.

John frowns, blinking to find his focus. "I like men in uniform. You're surprised?" He stretches until the vertebrae in his neck pop loudly, then ambles to the coffee pot, swirling the dregs of the previous morning's brew around the carafe and sniffing hopefully.

"You can't drink that now, you'll never sleep," Rodney mumbles.

"He'll be up before long anyway," John shrugs, tipping the carafe to his lips and drinking the coffee in four long gulps.

"You're disgusting." Rodney sounds pained.

"Like I haven't seen you eat coffee beans right out of the bag."

" _That_ was quality control."

"Sure."

"Neanderthal."

John snorts and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "So – where'd you want to store these?" He gestures at the presents.

"Store them?" Rodney looks perplexed. "Under the tree? Or did you have some quasi-heathen-corn-worshipping-pagan ritual you wanted to indulge in? I rather thought the 417lbs of spruce you dragged up from the primordial ooze was a hint that we were going all out, lights, ornaments, ho ho ho, but perhaps it's just fuel for the ritual burning of Santa Claus in effigy?"

John blinks. "Wow. You really need sleep."

"Pot. Kettle." Rodney sighs. "Where is it anyway?"

"What?"

"The tree?"

"Oh." John thinks. "Outside still."

"Outside?"

"Yeah."

"You were here for ten and a half hours on your own and you didn't bring it inside?"

John raises an eyebrow.

Rodney immediately looks cowed. "Well, yes, I suppose – you may have had other things that required your attention but – " He lifts his chin. "Do you have a tree stand?"

"My grandpa had one. Don't remember throwing it out." John rakes a hand through his hair. "Probably in the attic."

"Well, you go find that and I'll . . . "

"Now?"

"Yes now."

"It's like, the butt-crack of midnight, Rodney."

"And when else would you like to do it? God knows we have all the time in the world . . ."

John let his head sag forward. "I was gonna _sleep_."

"Yes, well, sleep is for the weak, go find me a tree stand."

"There's no electricity up there."

"So take a flashlight. Or a torch dipped in pitch, whatever works."

"Right, 'cause this is the Hunchback of Notre Dame . . ."

Rodney waves a tired, dismissive hand. "Avoid any women lurking in the shadows, particularly if they're named Esmerelda. You'll be fine."

John finds the tree stand without incident, so long as no one's counting the fact that he trips over a tin box and sends it ricocheting down the attic stairs, scattering fragile letters and age-curled photographs as it goes. Finn wakes with a sleepy whimper that John hopes Rodney hears over the baby monitor, cause he's caught up doing battle with a spider-web the size of Sicily, and the letters he can see are in his grandpa's hand-writing, so he'd like to collect them all up rather than tread them into dust. He's relieved to hear Rodney huff upstairs and Finn quiet down, squashes a disgustingly rotund arachnid underfoot, and since he's already rummaging around in the beast-laden dark, reckons he might as well find ornaments while he's at it. By the time he makes it down the attic stairs, letters and photos held tight in his hand, tree stand under one arm and ornaments tucked beneath his elbow, Rodney's shutting the door to the nursery with the overly-cautious movements of a man who's not entirely in control of his limbs.

"He okay?"

"Just hungry," Rodney murmurs, waving the empty bottle and reaching for the tree-stand.

"You okay?"

"I don't remember my name or who you are, but this seems a nice house, so I'll stay a while," Rodney mumbles, and they both head back downstairs.

They fix up the fir in one corner of the living room, and decorate it in the sort of asymmetrical, slap-dash, cock-eyed fashion only two sleep-deprived men in their late thirties could manage. "That's _cool_ ," John breathes, blinking at the star on top of the tree that's possibly pointing the way to Cedar Rapids rather than Bethlehem.

"Pretty," Rodney says as he stows the last of Finn's presents beneath. He stands and sways gently. "Ver', ver' pretty."

"Bed?" John asks, vaguely aware that there's something fundamentally wrong about a Rodney who's cooing over the sparkly lights he bought in town that afternoon, and then wonders if the room's always rocked from side to side the way it's doing now.

"Sure," Rodney says, and pulls off his shirt, dropping it beside the presents and heading for the stairs again. "I like beds. Beds make me happy."

"Also jello," John points out, trudging upstairs after him.

"That too," Rodney sighs, and he mumbles wistful things about puddings that jiggle while John falls face down into a pillow and loses consciousness like he's been cracked across the skull.

*****

He swears he's only been asleep for twenty-four seconds when Finn wails for food.

"S'your turn," Rodney croaks, pulling a pillow over his head and huddling into a ball.

"Yeah," John agrees, blinking sluggishly. "Okay. Um." He stands up and stumbles toward Finn's room, whacking his elbow on the door-frame as he goes. "Way to go, John," he manages through clenched teeth, trying to master the pain that shoots up through his arm. "Good work." He swallows, focuses, pads into Finn's room and reaches to scoop him up. "C'mon buddy," he mumbles, trying to find the right tone - it's not as if his lack of coordination's Finn's problem. "M'here now. How 'bout you let your Rodn- . . . Dad . . . sleep?"

Finn shakes his fists and _howls_.

"Or not," John says in resignation, and heads downstairs.

He mixes up formula and warms it slightly, cradling Finn in the arm he didn't stupidly bash into good, solid pine, murmuring nonsense to try and calm the baby's restless crying. He dimly recognizes the feeling of coming unmoored, as if he knocked something loose when he stumbled into the doorframe, and he jogs Finn gently and apologizes for the wait. "It's comin'," he yawns. "S'comin, I swear."

Once the bottle's ready, Finn latches on and drinks so enthusiastically that formula runs down the side of his face and into the creases at his neck. "For a kid who hates baths, you sure as hell like getting messy," John mumbles, wanders into the living room and settles into a chair. He leans his head back, closing his eyes as Finn makes tiny snuffling noses around his bottle and kicks at the underside of his arm.

The house sleeps around them, lulled by the hum of Rodney's distant snoring, but John shifts restlessly even with his eyes closed. He knows it's mostly tiredness that's twisting his thoughts, scattering them in a hundred anxious directions, but knowing that doesn't help him salvage any solid truth from the bedlam in his mind. His breathing quickens in counterpoint to Finn's and once the bottle's empty, he sets it aside, tugs the throw from the back of the armchair and suggests to Finn that they just sit for a while. He can't face Rodney - he's no idea why, just gives into the urge and lets Finn turn a sleepy face toward his body's warmth.

When memories rise up behind his eyelids, he's too disoriented to chart a path between them. Looking up into his father's face he can't remember how old he is – can't figure out exactly what he's done, but his father's furious, face set in razor-edged lines of quiet disgust, sneering down at him from some tremendous height. "Way to go, John," he whispers viciously, and John's four and sixteen and nine and twelve, and he's staring out the back window of a station wagon, waving at his grandparents until they disappear from view, while the scent of his mother's perfume's disappears on the breeze.

"Good work," his father whispers, lead-weight blame in every syllable. He spares a moment to eye Finn, then huffs his derision and walks away.

*****

When Rodney wakes him with a gentle hand to his shoulder, John's surprised to realize it's morning; blinks, disoriented, and grunts as he finds he's lost all feeling in his arm.

"You slept down here," Rodney says. His hair's sticking up every which way, and there are dark shadows under his eyes.

"Mmmmhm," says John, his vocabulary buried beneath several levels of not even knowing which day it is, not exactly trusting anything he sees. Finn stirs, grumbles slightly and screws up his face.

"I'll change him," Rodney offers, and pulls the blanket aside, flexes his fingers for a second and then maneuvers Finn into his arms. John pulls the blanket protectively up to his chin while Rodney watches. "You should go upstairs, get some better sleep."

John looks up – catalogs the familiar crooked tilt of Rodney's mouth, the round of his nose, the weary kindness of his eyes – and something loosens, shifts, almost lets him go. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"What for?"

John shrugs. "I don't know."

"You okay?"

John glances at the fir in the corner, lights blinking at random intervals, one side of the tree lacking ornaments altogether. "Maybe?" he manages, but can't say more.

*****

By December 25th he's mastered his feelings – or at least pushed them so deep down inside he can manage to function as though he's not as screwed-up as he is. It's easier to stay rooted in the present when it's daylight out - when Rodney's carefully tuning the radio to a tinny broadcast of carols and Finn's mesmerized by lengths of shiny, silver ribbon. The morning passes in a blur of wrapping paper, baby bottles, and misplaced mugs of coffee, and John focuses on the frayed hem of Rodney's pajama pants whenever he feels himself drifting away.

For someone whose relationship to religion is fractious at best, Rodney's enthusiastic about Christmas – grins widely, laughs loudly, rips the paper from his gifts with unselfconscious jubilation. He quiets a little when John pulls out the box that Jeannie sent – looks happily bewildered as he shakes out the sweater and samples the cookies she sent – but he's on his game enough to notice when John tries to steal his coffee instead of going to the kitchen to refill his own cup, and pokes John in the head and calls him a caffeine-sneaking jerk.

They get a kick out of the gift from Brad and Mitch - a Miller High Life case wrapped in packing twine, full of items new dads might need. It's clear they did their shopping at Osco. Amid the Neosporin, Altoids, Pedialite and dish soap are some dollar-aisle gems – a pair of turquoise rubber gloves; four travel-sized deodorants; a back issue of _Better Homes and Gardens_ ; and a small, wind-up toy that looks strangely like a marmot.

As promised, John gives Rodney nose-clippers, plus a home-made manual about how best to make sure and catch every hair. The manual's in cartoon form, and if the stick figures aren't exactly anything Da Vinci'd be proud of, they do the job of communicating that John might well find himself overcome with lust after Rodney clears the thicket. There are subscriptions to _Gifted Child_ magazine and _Parenting a Genius_ monthly, 'cause even if Finn turns out to be an ordinary, mud-loving, scraped-up-knees kind of kid, John's not adverse to humoring his dad. Rodney goes wide eyed over his multi-function phone, organizer, mp3 player and video game console, tolerates the 'Astrophysicists do it with a Big Bang' boxer shorts, and ends up just plain speechless when John tugs him up to show him the rarely-used back room, now devoid of junk and refitted as a study. There are wall-mounted bookshelves and an elegant, dove-jointed desk, and Rodney runs a hand over everything, as if he might learn it better by touch than by sight.

For his part, Rodney gifts John with socks, an enormous flashlight, a Buck Rogers DVD, ten coupons which, when used, force Rodney to accompany John to ten movies that have no redeeming value whatsoever, and a scrap of paper that John supposes could loosely be called a gift certificate – a hand written note from Ted at the lumber yard; "Rodney came by and gave us money. You should come by and pick out some shit." He recklessly tears the paper from each present, right up until the moment Rodney passes over the last box. There's something about the way Rodney gets quiet, chewing on his bottom lip as if he's nervous, that makes John slow down, slide his fingers under each piece of tape and slowly loosen the lid.

Inside is a framed bill of sale for the land on which they're resting, the year 1891 inked on the upper right corner by some nameless clerk with a good, steady hand. Beside the deed is a dog-eared photograph – Joseph McGillion and his grandson, Jacob; beside that, a faded Polaroid – Jake McGillion and his grandson, John. "Family," Rodney says softly, sitting beside him. "I just thought – your dad was a fuck to think of keeping you away from here. You belong. Look at your face, at his."

John stares - it's like seeing himself twice over, in dusty overalls from 1928; in patched jeans he remembers ripping on the cellar steps in 1975. "Where'd you find this?" he murmurs, and his voice sounds brittle even to his own ears, fracturing beneath the weight of the hundred other questions he wants to ask.

"Basement," Rodney says. "In among those albums and boxes you don't like to touch." He pauses, looking across the room. "I thought we could hang it on the wall."

"I should get a hammer." But John doesn't move, and Rodney just sits beside him, their knees touching. Even Finn's quiet.

"Is it good?" Rodney asks, and John realizes he doesn't know, isn't sure.

"It's – " He looks up, and hopes to God it's written in his face, because he hasn't a chance of expressing it otherwise.

Rodney must see it – offers a satisfied smile as he gets to his feet and reaches for his son. "Time to introduce you to the rites of the traditional McKay Family Christmas Dinner PB&J," he tells Finn, settling him in one arm and heading to the kitchen.

John studies his grandpa's smile and remembers the way it felt to fall asleep in a rickety, twin bed in a room blessed by belonging. He looks up after the two men who've taken up living in this house, and he's suddenly conscious of that feeling there again, warm at his elbow, soft against the palm of his hand.

*****

It's just after seven when they hear tires on gravel, an exchange of voices, and the whine of an engine as someone reverses down the lane. There's a sharp knock at the kitchen door moments later, and John goes to answer, figuring it has to be a crazy person for them to be mad enough to be out on Christmas night.

"John Sheppard," Ada Gunderson calls. "I'm freezing to death out here. Open this door before I box your ears."

John throws back the locks and opens the door. "Mrs. Gunderson?"

"One and the same." Ada bustles inside, two covered plates in her hand. "I swear, cold enough to freeze your blood. Close the door, lad, don't be slow."

John obeys, manners kicking into high gear as if his grandmother's still standing by the sink, eyebrow raised in his direction. "To what do we owe the, um . . . "

"I had Charlie drop me off," Ada says cheerfully, pulling off the hat that covers her slate-gray hair, unwinding her scarf. "He'll be back for me in an hour and a half – useful thing, grandkids." She waves a hand, as if to dismiss questions, shrugs out of her coat. "I'm not staying, just came to make sure you're eating and to fuss over that baby of yours."

Rodney wanders to hover in the kitchen doorway, Finn squirming in his arms. "Mrs. Gunderson?"

"And there he is, oh come here, you wee thing!" Ada swoops in and claims Finn with the authority of a woman over sixty-five. Rodney blinks, startled, and John'd bet good money that for a split-second he thought he was the 'wee thing' Ada was after. "I brought you both dinner," Ada hums, rocking Finn. "Better eat up while it's still warm."

John glances at Rodney, whose expression has changed to one of pure adoration. "Dinner?"

"Turkey, sweet potatoes . . . "

"Sweet potatoes?" Rodney dives across the room and pulls the foil from one of the plates. "Oh my god. _Marshmallows_."

John snorts, but picks up the other plate. "Potatoes?" he asks hopefully.

"Roasted and creamed, and we pulled out some of the summer corn . . . "

"Corrrrn," Rodney breathes rapturously, rummaging in drawer for a fork before digging into his spoils, standing in the middle of the room.

Mrs. Gunderson laughs, smiling at Finn. "I knew it. Said to myself, Ada, those boys might be able to figure out the mechanics of a baby if they try real hard – after all, I hear they're pretty smart when they set their minds to it – but they'll try and survive on cereal and coffee if left alone. Isn't a man alive who wouldn't try, given his whim."

John avoids Rodney's eye. Rodney chokes on a green bean.

"So," continues Ada, "you and I'll get acquainted and these boys can eat a little, maybe take a shower."

John looks up. "Shower?" he asks.

Rodney sniffs his own armpit at the same time as trying to shovel in a mouthful of corn. "We smell?"

Ada raises an eyebrow.

John frowns guiltily. "It's his fault!" he says at last, pointing at Rodney.

"Is not!" Rodney exclaims. "I'm all for showers! I like showers!"

"He's supposed to be the one who notices BO," John manages around a piece of turkey.

"Exactly when did I get assigned biological hazard duty?" Rodney asks, incredulous "At least I know how to use deodorant."

"You steal mine!" John shoots back, waving his fork. A fleck of mashed potato hits Rodney on the nose.

Rodney gapes.

"Boys, boys," Ada interrupts. "There are brownies in my coat pocket and neither of you gets a bite until you've scrubbed behind your ears. John Sheppard, don't give me that look, I've known you since you were not much bigger than this little man, and you've never washed your neck without protest in your life. Ah, ah!" She shakes her head at his attempt to interrupt. "I have a good deal of faith in our armed forces, God love and protect 'em, but I'm not foolish enough to believe they trained you in _that_. Now finish your dinner and go get clean before I tell the neighborhood I caught you buck naked, Fourth of July before last, preaching to the cattle in Mike Sullivan's pasture about the virtues of 'American Idol'. And _you_ -" she says, turning to Rodney, who's grinning with abandon, " – I'll tell everyone _you're_ warming up to the idea of creationism."

They stare at her, horrified, then turn all their attention to eating as fast as they possibly can.

*****

Rodney makes it to the shower first. Years of viewing meals as annoying interruptions to the proper flow of genius have honed his skill at inhaling food, John hypothesizes - plus he's always been able to move pretty fast given the right encouragement. John thinks of the brownies in Ada Gunderson's coat pocket, and his belly gurgles happily at the thought. If his own stomach's ready to have him roll over and beg for chocolate, it's little wonder that Rodney took the stairs four at a time and undressed as he ran.

John thumbs at _War and Peace_ while he waits. His progress has been sporadic since meeting Rodney. There's always the problem of sorting the Rostovs from the Kutuzovs from the Dolohovs whenever he picks up the book, and the Russians insist on dragging their heels instead of getting to the good stuff and starting a fight. He'd give it up and simply doze off if not for the fact that Rodney might steal his brownie while he's sleeping, and by God he needs something to act as a distraction from Rodney's rendition of 'Sister Christian'.

He drifts regardless – starts in surprise when Rodney comes back into the bedroom, a towel around his hips and clouds of steam following in his wake. "Hey," John smiles, looking him over from head to toe. He feels his expression turn a little dangerous.

Rodney pauses, eyeing him warily. "May I remind you there's a senior citizen in our house?"

"I know." John slides off the bed and quirks an eyebrow.

"A very nice senior citizen – not the sort who drives 20 in a 45 zone, or who subscribes to Readers Digest, or gives money to those delinquent school urchins who are always trying to make us buy chocolate –"

John blinks, momentarily distracted. "Are you talking about the fundraiser for the new basketball court?"

Rodney tilts his chin in dismissal. " – a senior citizen who brought us sweet potatoes and turkey and who's promised us _brownies_?"

"What's your point?" John asks, backing Rodney up against the wall.

"You have that look on your face," Rodney says, sounding vaguely panicked. John thinks about pointing out that it's a _good_ look that means happy, sticky, sweaty things, but Rodney sets a finger against his lips so he hushes for the time being. "Believe me, I have come to know and appreciate that look from the depths of my horny little soul," Rodney continues, "but I am _not doing it with a senior citizen in the house_."

John sucks the tip of Rodney's finger into his mouth.

"Or . . . perhaps I am," Rodney says weakly, and lets John pull away his towel.

*****

Rodney can't meet Mrs. Gunderson's eye when they come back downstairs, but John can – grins and asks her if she'd consider babysitting, haggles until they've agreed upon a complicated barter system that involves a couple of days of roof repair, four fruit pies, some cat-sitting, and the promise that Rodney'll explain the way email works in terms Ada can understand. Rodney sits on the sofa, Finn laid in his lap, moving his son's arms in a parody of Hawaiian dance while negotiations take place, and he only gets comfortable again once Charlie rumbles up the lane to collect his grandma and take her home.

"Thank you for the dinner!" he says, looking up briefly, blushing furiously when Mrs. Gunderson winks at him. "She knows!" he whispers to John as they stand in the kitchen doorway, waving as Ada drives away. "She absolutely knows you did filthy, filthy things to me with your tongue."

John snorts. "She has five kids and six grandchildren, Rodney. I reckon she knows a bit about tongues."

Rodney gasps, horrified. "You just suggested Mrs. Gunderson – oh my _God_."

John grins unapologetically, buoyed by the buzz of a good, clean afterglow. "I hear she and Bill Fletcher have been squiring each other to socials lately," he teases with a quirk of his brow. "You know what _that_ means."

Rodney cradles Finn against his shoulder and turns on his heel. "You're a perverted man," he hisses.

"Aw shucks," John says, smiling. "You romantic."

Rodney flips him the finger, but eventually consents to lean against him and watch ESPN's _Year in Sports_. He bitches about the commercials, mourns the lack of further brownie ecstasy, and falls asleep with his nose pressed to John's bicep, Finn blowing spit bubbles in his arms.

John watches Rodney's hands as the latter sleeps like it's the only thing worth doing in the world. The long, blunt fingers that pushed their way into his life now hoard a gentleness he wishes he understood. Tipping his head back against the sofa, John closes his eyes, and remembers being kissed beside his grandfather's truck, face cupped reverently as Rodney leaned in. It feels a lifetime ago, and as Finn sighs contentedly, John remembers how much he doesn't like to share.

*****

It's almost 9am on the day after New Year's when Mr. Brenneman calls. John hasn't mainlined nearly enough coffee to be functional when the phone rings, and fumbles the receiver as he tries to get it to his ear. "Sheppard," he mumbles, voice still hoarse with what bit of sleep he's had.

"John Sheppard – I've a job for you," Mr. Brenneman says. His voice is steady and loud, indicative of someone who's probably been up since 5.30am out of choice, and not because Finn McKay filled his pants and hollered for someone to deal with the stink.

"Job?" John remembers those. He was good with his hands, once, he recalls, before said hands were mostly full of baby.

"You reckon you can come by the place tomorrow? Ten suit you?"

John blinks. Job. Money. "Ten's fine. What – " He clears his throat. "What sort of job?"

"You'll see when you get here. Five, six months of work if you're the man for it, I reckon."

John squints, tries to imagine what could take that long save for somehow single-handedly wrangling a barn into existence. "I'll uh – be there. Ten."

"Sharp. See you then, son." The line goes dead.

John replaces the receiver, refills his coffee cup, and wanders into the living room. "We," he says, wetting his lips and frowning as though he's thinking through some complex equation, "are gonna need to find daycare."

Rodney looks up from where he's snapping Finn back into an all-in-one outfit covered in small giraffes. "Well, fuck," he says at last, and lets Finn chew on one of his fingers.

*****

"Okay, so, you go first," Rodney says later that morning, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and sitting down, leaning forward with a piece of paper in his hand.

John swallows another mouthful of necessary coffee. "I really think you should. Prerogative. You're his dad and all."

"Ah, well, yes, excellent point." Rodney grins briefly, then clears his throat. "So, uh, number one - higher degree in early childhood development . . ."

John rolls his eyes.

". . . number two, medical training – MD a bonus, physician's assistant preferred, nurse acceptable; number three, fluency in at least one other useful language (Sanskrit does _not_ count); number four, is up to date on current affairs and global politics; number five, should fully comprehend all basic tenets of modern scientific thought at the BS level _at least_ . . ."

John swallows the urge to comment on BS of other types.

". . . number six, must be able to drive stick shift; number seven, must fully understand the ways in which the FDA food pyramid dramatically underestimates the nutritional needs of most children and is largely an attempt to subsidize the dairy and beef industries of this country; number eight, does not drink on the job; number nine, does not drink Bud or Miller products when off the job; number ten, is fully trained in underwater rescue . . ."

John chokes on his coffee.

". . . number eleven, read _Moby Dick_ , didn't like it . . ."

"Moby Dick?"

Rodney looks up, lips pressed together. "I felt bad for the whale. Anyone with a shred of decency would feel bad for the whale."

John stares.

Rodney shifts uncomfortably and returns to his list. "Number twelve, is a registered Independent; number thirteen, is committed to the regular and active application of sun-block, even in winter; number fourteen . . ."

John misses most of the rest of the list – sips his coffee and plasters his best 'Yes Sir, I'm Paying Attention, Sir' expression on his face. He flinches when Rodney snaps his fingers right in front of his nose, asking a question in a tone of voice that suggests it's not the first or second time he's done so.

"Your list?"

"My list. Right." John nods and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a much-folded sheet of paper. He clears his throat. "Do not drop the kid." He refolds the note and sets it on the table.

Rodney blinks at him. "You're hopeless."

"Says you, Mr Seventy-Four Things a – "

"Seventy- _five_ ," Rodney sniffs.

"Seventy-five things a Daycare Provider Must Provide."

"I just think that if we're trusting this person with – "

"Rodney?" John reaches across the table and picks up Rodney's list, holding it aloft. " _We_ don't qualify."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well I still think . . ."

John tilts his head, waiting.

"Fine." Rodney snatches his list back and folds it protectively. "I just want Finn to be okay with – this stranger person."

John sighs and pushes back his chair, walks round the table and settles in a crouch. "He's gonna be fine. We won't leave him with anyone we don't trust."

Rodney glances at him unhappily, then away to the far side of the kitchen. "I don't like leaving him at all."

"Well, you can always stay home."

"You know I can't do that," Rodney hisses.

"Then we're gonna have to find daycare, like 90% of the other people in our shoes," John says patiently.

"Maybe I'm just a bad dad," Rodney manages. "I mean – maybe I should just . . . you know . . . maybe if I was a _good_ dad I'd want to . . ."

John briefly reels in terror at the idea of a Rodney McKay forcibly parted from his research high. "You're a good dad," he says, gathering his wits and reaching out to squeeze Rodney's arm.

"Sure?" Rodney sounds oddly plaintive.

"Sure."

"Okay."

"Okay." John stands up and kisses the top of Rodney's head before crossing the kitchen to the coffeepot. "How about we call Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Gunderson, ask them who they know. They wouldn't steer us wrong. I bet they . . ." He gasps in surprise as all the air leaves his lungs in a rush – Rodney's plastered to his back, arms wound tight around his torso. "Hey, buddy" he manages. "Breathing?"

Rodney squeezes even tighter for just a second, then mumbles "I think I hear Finn," and hurries out of the kitchen. John watches him go with a faint, warm smile on his face. Someday soon, he reckons, he really has to get around to telling his prickly bastard boyfriend how much he loves him.

*****

It's bitterly cold as John makes the drive to the Brennemans' next morning, and the heater in the truck splutters a couple of times as if it might give up the ghost. "C'mon y'old thing," he coaxes affectionately, petting the dash. "You can do it. Don't abandon me to frostbite just yet." He swears the engine purrs a little in response.

The Brenneman farm's one of the few, big spreads left in the county – soy, corn, and a handful of livestock every few years, whenever Jim gets bored and thinks hiring someone to shovel pig shit will liven things up. There weren't any animals this year, save the chickens Maggie, Jim's wife, managed to save from every kind of predatory all-comer, and the yard's quiet as John rumbles up to park by the small garden shed.

"Sheppard," Jim calls, coming out of the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hands.

"Morning Mr. Brenneman," John says. Jim's older than his grandpa would've been by now. John can't help but want to doff the cap he's not wearing.

"Coffee?"

"Sounds great," he smiles, crossing the yard, self-consciously rubbing the stubble that's dark against his jaw. He'd meant to shave, but there'd been an enormous calamity ("There are _no diapers_!") followed by a fight over whose turn it was to buy them, and then a fight over whose t-shirt was going to be sacrificed to the machinations of Finn McKay's ass. John had never read a book about parenting, but he'd be willing to bet good money none of them had a chapter about the multiple ways a kid could add to the repertoire of material brought up in moments of blind fury.

"How's your kid?" Close up, Jim Brenneman's just as strong-built and solid as ever, amiable face topped with a shock of white hair, laugh-lines gentle beside his eyes.

John smiles sheepishly. "You heard about that, huh?"

"Son, there's not a jackrabbit in six counties that didn't hear about that." He opens the kitchen door, leaves John to close it behind him, and crosses the room to fill his guest a mug of strong, dark brew.

"It's working out okay," John says, accepting the mug and blowing on the coffee before he sips, lips not entirely thawed from the truck's best efforts to keep his feet warm, leaving most of the rest of him to freeze.

Jim quirks a knowing eyebrow. "We had five."

"Brave man. What's it - nine grandkids now?"

"Ten. Emmeline just had another."

"Ten." John nods in deference to the Brenneman family line. "So I don't suppose you're surprised by me looking seven kinds of . . . crap."

Jim chuckles. "So long as you stay awake on the job, son, I couldn't care less what you look like."

"Speaking of . . ."

"Impatient," Jim notes amused. "Still, no point in warming you up just to freeze you again. We'll walk out to Old Barn."

John holds his coffee cup in both hands, hoping to communicate his intent to take it with him. "Old Barn? I thought you . . ." He hitches a shoulder toward the window. "Rebuilt? Expanded? Ready for when Jack takes over."

"I did." Jim pulls open the door. "But I'm not pulling down Old Barn. Not for love or money."

John follows him back outside, tramps through fresh snow around the newer farm buildings and out to the edge of the Brenneman property line.

Old Barn rises up from behind the hollow curved into the earth by a dried-up creek. She's a graceful old thing with a slight lean – John smiles in recognition, acknowledging the tug of 'home' at the back of his mind – newly painted in red and white, her roof a dappled gray. John casts an eye over the windows, the gables, the shutters and doors as they near – everything looks in good condition, which means his job isn't to fix up the grand old dame.

"In here," Jim calls, and pushes back one of the rolling barn doors, reaches to his left to flip on a light.

Inside, the air's sharp and crisp, wood floor solid beneath John's boots. There are tool benches against the walls, piled with dusty crates of hammers and wrenches. Six types of motor oil sit on one shelf; plastic boxes of nails and screws on another. John glances at the saws, the planes, the vices hanging on the walls – everything's clean and sharp, no rust or damage, even if the tools aren't new. "Mr. Brenneman?"

"She's over here," Jim says and switches on another light, turning John's dim sense that there's an object in the middle of the room into fully-fledged awareness. Jim pauses, like a showman, as if he knows he's about to reveal something spectacular, then tugs on the tarp that's covering whatever-it-is, and reveals a battered Piper J -3 aircraft, still painted the bright, unapologetic yellow of the sun.

John fumbles his coffee cup onto a toolbench and walks right over, running a reverent hand over her hull. "A – how'd you . . . I – _what?_ " he asks, mind already charting the fixes that need to be made, the tensile wires that need replacing, the paint and lumber that beg for attention. God only knows what state the engine's in.

"Piper-J," Jim says unnecessarily. "Trained in one of these before I got shipped to the Pacific – before I got shot in the leg." He reaches up to pat the fuselage. "Once I was back and everyone starting clamoring for vegetables sprayed within an inch of their life, pesticides like pixie dust, I snapped one up. Hired your grandpa to fly her. Crop dusted for me oh . . . til '56?"

John blinked, stunned. "My – my . . . . _my?_ "

"He flew too." Jim doesn't seem surprised John doesn't know. "Trained by the Navy, just like me. Broke his leg, somewhere south of Okinawa, came back mostly without a mark . . ."

"Pacific?"

"Mmhmm. Never seen anything like the way he flew," Jim murmurs, looking up at the plane. "I was competent – knew my way around. He was – it was like it was part of himself."

Something dull and forgotten in John aches – he knows that feeling, God, he _knows_ that feeling. "I didn't – "

"Your dad," Jim says shortly, as though that explains everything.

John flinches. "What about him?"

"No one made Jake McGillion do anything," Jim says, peering over his glasses. "But your father had a habit of being a. . . ."

"Jackass?" John supplies.

"That'll work. And he could make things hard for your mum, and that made things hard on your grandpa."

John sighs, hand curved warm against the fuselage. "Goddammit," he manages.

"Your father knew what he wanted in life," Jim observes. "And what he wanted was all of you. Every bit. Not a particle left aside for anyone else, and when you loved your mom and your grandparents the way you did, the way any kid would . . ."

John turns away, takes the half-dozen steps necessary to get close to the door, feel the chill of January against his face.

"There really is work, son," Jim says, coming up behind him. "She needs repair, you can see that much yourself. I haven't a clue if we can find the parts, and there'll be a fair bit of educating yourself to get started. I don't reckon those fancy modern day Air Force types taught you much about stripping a Piper engine."

"Not much," John says, voice tight.

"But I heard about your son. And I figured it was time you . . ." Jim wets his lips. "You can make your way without much help when it's just you, but when you take on a family, you've a right to know what's hidden just beyond your reach."

"He's not – Finn. He's not mine. I mean – he's . . ."

"I understand your situation just fine, thank you." Jim nods a dismissal of that kind of protest. "All I'm saying is – I've a plane your grandpa flew that needs a damn lot of TLC. Reckon you could fly it once it's done – take folks up on 4th of July, run a stand at the county fair. I'll cover fuel costs. It'll bring folks together once in a while, see one of these things flying again." He finishes his coffee. "And if it helps you figure out a little more of what you're carrying with you, well that'll be something we won't talk about much. My wife, mind, she'll talk to you for hours if you let her, so watch out."

John laughs despite himself. "She still bake those pies?"

"That she does." Jim looks over at him. "You want the job?"

John looks back and nods.

"I'll leave you to get acquainted then. Come in at lunchtime and we'll talk compensation and pie."

"Thank you," John says earnestly.

"Should've done it the moment you came back," Jim says, as much to himself as to John, and stomps back across the yard to the farmhouse.

*****

John manages to keep his head pretty clear while he's at the Brennemans' place – fills his mind with list of things to do, books he hopes someone's written, questions to ask down at the municipal airport in Iowa City. He wonders if there are websites out there, if he can track down someone local to call about wing spars and brakes. Before long he eases himself into the rear seat of the cockpit, sets his hands on the controls and closes his eyes, imagines the engine's thrum, the shift in balance as the tail lifts, the plane rising into a slow, lazy climb. It's almost enough to still the nervous chatter of the thoughts he doesn't want to hear, clamoring at the back of his mind, speaking with the tight insolence of his father, soothing with the gruff comfort of his grandpa's voice.

He drives back to the farm barely knowing how to explain what he's learned, and he's relieved that Finn and Rodney are gone. He finds a note on the fridge – "SOMEONE had to get diapers. Back before dark" – and screws it up in a little ball, more for something to do than because he has the energy to stay angry. He sits at the kitchen table, fiddles with a pacifier that's sitting amid the bills and the remnants of Rodney's lunch – PB&J, the crusts still on a plate. "Ah, shit," John whispers to himself and hauls himself up, takes off his coat, and sets himself to the job of doing the dishes since he's no idea what else to do.

He's wiping crumbs off the table when he spots the tin box from the attic that's been holding up pizza menus and fourteen credit card offers since just before Christmas. The curiosity he'd felt that night, tangled up with lights and tree stands and ornaments, got swallowed by formula and bad dreams. But now he has time to look at what he gathered together, and he's helped along by a brand new urge to figure out his goddamn family, still giving him grief when almost every last member's dead and gone. He throws the sponge into the sink, dusts his hands of every kind of lunch and breakfast detritus, and pries off the lid to reach in inside.

John smoothes out letters, fragile things written on paper thin as trust, sorts them by date – '42, '43, '44. They're censored in places – thick black lines in the middle of a paragraph – but omitted thoughts are fewer and further between with each successive note. He doesn't read at first, just glances at the writing, smiles at the illustration of palm trees in the corner of one page. There are letters in another hand too – dog-eared, water stained, battered and torn, letters from an Iowa farm to a nameless corner of the South Pacific. John can almost feel the pressure of them inside the pocket of an ill-fitting coat.

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link to plain text version: [Martha's first letter](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/92750.html#cutid1)

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link to plain text version: [Jake's first letter](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/92750.html#cutid2)

 

John laughs softly, thinking sympathetically of his poor grandmother-to-be, doing battle with cake batter and a feisty future mother-in-law. He sifts through the photos in the tin, pulls out one of a young woman in a gingham shirt, a pair of oversized men's trousers cinched at her waist, smiling shyly at the camera with her corn-husking gloves in her hands. Her hair gleams dark, caught back in a scarf at the nape of her neck, but her smile's the same as the one that met John every summer as they rumbled up the drive. "Hey, Martha," he murmurs, smiling back.

There are other pictures – his grandpa, fresh-faced and smiling, decked out in overalls, sitting behind the wheel of a decrepit truck; Jake and Martha both, sitting on the porch steps of some other house, laughing uproariously at a joke John can't hear. There are pictures of his grandpa in uniform, jaw set, shoulders square; less formal snapshots of him caught with a cigarette dangling between his lips, dogtags bright against the white of his undershirt and a quizzical look sitting oddly on his face. The jewel's at the bottom of the tin – a faded photograph of his grandpa leaning against some wall, proud as punch in his leather flying jacket with USN embroidered below the collar. His khaki pants haven't seen an iron in a while, and the angle of his cap suggests there aren't COs around. He looks happy, John thinks – free, unencumbered, as if he's doing something he knows is right.

He sets down the photo beside the picture of Martha, tries to fathom the pettiness of his father, and fails as he has almost every time before. He doesn't hear the rumble of tires on gravel, or the sound of Rodney's boots in persistent snow, so he flinches as the kitchen door cracks just a fraction and Rodney peeks in, holding a finger to his lips, shushing John before he can speak. He eases Finn inside, wrapped up like an infant streudel, comfortable in his car seat and fast asleep.

"Sorry. He's only just dropped off," Rodney whispers, wandering through the kitchen to stow him in the living room. He comes back moments later, drops Finn's tiny hat on the kitchen table, sets down the baby monitor beside it. "What're those?'

John glances up. "My grandpa flew planes."

Rodney blinks. "He what?"

"Flew," John says again. "Planes. World War II."

Rodney pulls off his gloves, his scarf, his coat, leaves them all in a pile in the closest chair. "How'd you find this out?" he asks, sitting down at John's left side, fingering the photographs on the table with a reverence that means John can't stay angry at him, even if he was the one who forgot to prevent the tragedy of Finn McKay's naked butt.

"Mr Brenneman," he shrugs, pushing the letters toward Rodney's blunt touch.

"The job," Rodney says, looking up. "This was the job?"

"The job's a plane," John says, looking back at the photos. "Piper J-3 – a cropduster he wants restored. My grandpa used to fly it."

Rodney sets down the letters in his hands and turns his chair to face John square. "Well I like that," he says at last, clearly exasperated. "What happened to neighborliness and – rural spirit?" he asks, waving a hand.

John quirks an eyebrow. "Rural spirit?"

"Okay, so I made that up, but the point still stands. How the hell did no one tell you this before now. How did your _grandpa_ not tell you? Your mom? Your – " He sags a little, face growing tight and angry. "If this is because of your goddamn father I swear we're driving to Nevada right this instant and digging up his sorry carcass just so I can have the satisfaction of killing him again."

John smiles ruefully. "You'd do it."

"Damn right I'd do it!" Rodney explodes. "Are you kidding me? Your grandpa was a – was a _pilot_ \- " he scrabbles for a picture and waves it in John's face, "and no one fucking _told you_?"

John ducks his head, jaw clenched tight, thumbing the corner of one photograph.

"I'm sorry," Rodney says, deflating just as quickly as he exploded. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know it probably doesn't help when I get . . ." He blows out a breath. "I just – it kills me that he didn't see you when you were right in front of his face."

John manages the barest nod. "Mr Brenneman reckons he just – my dad . . ." He shrugs like it's no big thing. "Wanted me to himself."

Rodney shakes his head, expression pained. "Well then he should've had a dog, not a son."

John scrubs a hand over his face, every new piece of information crawling around inside him, itching beneath his skin. "Shit."

Rodney squirms. "I bought hot dogs?" he says at last, changing the subject with the finesse of a freight train and reaching to pull him into a rough, awkward hug. "Hot dogs and the white buns that have no nutritional value whatsoever. Also two kinds of mustard and some horseradish and a bottle of Tums."

John laughs brokenly and presses his forehead into the warm space at Rodney's throat. "I like the way you think, McKay," he mumbles.

*****

They settle on a day-care provider by week's end – Laura Cadman, a "free spirit," (Rodney's words) who cares for two other kids and does editing work on the side. "I like to use my English major for evil," she tells Rodney, as if she knows she's making his intestines knot by thinking about literary criticism in his presence. He'd complain (and does, out on the porch in the bitter cold, begging John to change his mind, to not have them leave Finn with an utter madwoman who wears sequined sparkle-skirts and wears her hair in two long braids) but she knows first-aid, speaks Italian fluently, minored in early childhood ed, and not only has an October 2004, _Physics World_ [article](http://physicsweb.org/articles/world/17/10/2) about the greatest twenty equations in history pinned to her fridge, but argues about the order with Rodney for forty-seven minutes.

John passes the time playing with Finn, who's fascinated by a hand puppet that looks like a tortoise.

They leave Finn with her for the afternoon – "a trial run," she suggests, just two hours on their own, "to let the baby get acclimated." John suspects the acclimation's more for the elder McKay he has to drag back to the car, but he keeps his own counsel as he drives toward town.

"He'll be okay, you think?" Rodney asks, turning in his seat to glance back at Laura's house.

"He seemed to like her."

"Hmmm." Rodney leans his elbow on the juncture of door and window and gnaws on his thumbnail. "Everyone we talked to said she was great."

"Yep."

"And she's actually _heard_ of the Balmer series, which is some sort of miracle."

"Yep."

Rodney rubs his fingers together restlessly. "And she had very sensible shoes. Did you notice they were round toed?"

John laughs softly and glances in Rodney's direction. "I didn't," he said, face softening at Rodney's utter sincerity. "He's gonna be fine, I promise." He looks back at the road as Rodney sighs miserably, but reaches out with his right hand and rubs the back of Rodney's neck almost all the way into town.

*****

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link to plain text version: [Jake's second letter](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/92750.html#cutid3)

*****

For John, the next two weeks are full of books, paperwork, and a long involved conversation with Jerry, one of the mechanics at the airport in Iowa City, who's amenable to providing a twice-a-month look-see at the plane. His once over satisfies the FAA that everything's supervised, John avoids punching anyone who breathes down his neck while he's working, and Jerry gets a nice check from Brenneman, a beer when he visits, and the right to ground the plane if he reckons it's been done wrong when everything's complete.

At home things settle into something like routine. Rodney starts snapping his fingers and running out in the middle of dinner to pencil equations on a thick, yellow pad, John fits shelves in the upstairs hall closet, and Finn's either the gassiest baby alive or working on his smile. John works on learning as many ways as possible to coax a grin out of the kid, while Rodney tries to break his own addiction to the elevator Mozart on the Baby Einstein DVDs. Finn gets the hiccoughs, learns to chew on Laura's hair, starts kicking off his socks, and makes bigger smells with every passing day. Rodney starts pacing in his study, chasing down an equation that's hovering just beyond his reach, and attaches a contraption to the arm of the nursery rocking chair that'll hold open a book and leave a person's hands free. John cooks dinner, replaces the spark plugs in Rodney's car, and thinks he might die of something right between laughter and appreciation when he finds Rodney reading Finn bedtime stories from the _Journal of Mathematical Physics_.

"What?" Rodney says, frowning.

"You're . . . are you _kidding_ me?"

Rodney squares his shoulders. "I'm reliably informed it's all in the tone of voice," he asserts, and goes back to telling Finn about topological tensor currents.

Two mornings later, John wakes to find the bedroom flooded with pale gray light. He doesn't remember the last time he slept a whole night through, and he lounges for a long, silent moment, savoring the heavy satisfaction in his limbs. Rodney's sprawled beside him, face almost entirely obscured by his pillow, and John grins lazily for half a second before fear catches him cold and he bolts from the bed.

Finn wakes when John grabs him, begins to squawl almost immediately, and John's never heard anything so dear in his life. "Jesus, kid," he mumbles, pacing back and forth with Finn cradled against his shoulder. "Don't _do_ that."

"Do what?" Rodney asks from the doorway, grumpy and half-asleep.

John sighs apologetically. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"Well, don't rocket out of bed like Gwen Anderson's trying to seduce you again," Rodney suggested. "What the hell was that about?"

John hitches the shoulder Finn's crying into. "We slept through the night. I thought – I thought maybe he was . . ."

Rodney's eyes grow huge in his head. "He's not is he?"

John stares at him like he's fresh off the spaceship from idiotville. "The crying kid? No, Rodney, not dead."

"Oh crap," Rodney mutters, and stumbles over to sit heavily in the rocking chair. He sits too far forward, and the whole thing rocks unsteadily, smacking him in the back of the head. "Ow."

John sets Finn down on the changing table, wanting something to do with his hands. "I guess . . . when do babies start sleeping longer?"

"Six, seven weeks or . . . oh."

John lets out a long breath. "Sorry buddy," he whispers at Finn, whose cries have dulled to tired, miserable whimpers. "And here you were helping us out."

Rodney pushes himself up and shifts to stand at John's elbow. "Sleeping through the night," he says reverently, staring at Finn. "I _knew_ you were a genius."

John snorts softly, fastens Finn's new diaper, and smiles faintly as the baby yawns. "Got a little more in you?" he asks. Rodney shuffles back toward their bedroom as if the question were directed at him, but Finn just makes a grumbling noise and sucks on his fist, eyes drooping. John sets him gently back in his crib and waits for a moment, convinced this is too good to be true, but Finn's eyes grow heavy and he yawns again, stretching and falling asleep the second after.

All the McKays seem to be anxious for slumber – Rodney's already asleep by the time John slips back into bed and presses himself close against his warm, broad back.

"Uffna," Rodney mumbles, half pulling away, then rocking back, snug against John's stomach.

"Yeah," John agrees, hand splayed at Rodney's hip, nose against the nape of his neck, and he drifts away too.

*****

It's ten days before John can gently pry the wings from the Piper, set them on the floor of Old Barn beside bodywork that has to be replaced. It's a long, gritty day, sharp along the edges, made worse when Rodney comes home that night with a letter in his hand and a wistful, unhappy look on his face, giving away his guilt. John looks up at him as he comes through the kitchen door, pauses in feeding Finn. "What?" he asks, dispensing with preliminaries.

"I've been invited . . . " Rodney clears his throat. "Been invited to Japan. They're –" He realizes the kitchen door's still open and closes it hurriedly, waving a hand. "They're convening a meeting of the best minds in South-East Asia and – "

"Who is?"

"Oh – Manyeko, University of Tokyo, he's – " Rodney shakes his head. "The point is they're bringing in every major player in physics and math who's doing anything interesting with _anything_ \- well, except for that ridiculous Russian recluse, but what's anyone ever been able to do with the Russians? – and they've –" He puts the letter down on the table. "Invited me to give an address. To the whole conference. It's not quite keynote but it's . . . almost."

John looks at the envelope. "When?"

"March. March 18th. That's when I'd have to fly, I mean, it begins March 21st and ends – " He wets his lips. "April 6th."

"Three weeks?" John asks, incredulous.

"It's – workshops, roundtables, collaborations and – "

John looks back up at Rodney's face. The expression there is equal parts eagerness and regret, an indicator of how torn he feels – he needs the decision made for him. "You have to go."

"But – "

"It's not even a question."

"But – "

"No buts," John presses his lips together and gives Rodney the sort of look he used to quell grunts back in the day. "You're not passing this up."

"What about – "

"I'll take care of him."

"I was going to say, what about you?"

John manages a sheepish smile. "Encouraging. You're more worried about me than your kid."

"Sort of," Rodney says apologetically. He pulls out a chair and sits down. "Handling a kid alone for three weeks, it's –"

"This is the sort of thing you would've killed for, before," John points out, not bothering to pin down 'before what'. "You can't give it up because you're here, or because of Finn. You'll end up a miserable, resentful bastard."

Rodney looks down at his folded hands. "I want to go," he confesses.

"So you go." He transfers Finn back into the cradle of his arms.

"But I don't want to leave."

"Can't have both."

"I know."

John waits for a moment. "We'll be here when you get back," he offers more gently. "The conference won't."

Rodney looks pained for a second, then leans in and kisses Finn's forehead, then the corner of John's mouth. "I feel like a schmuck."

"Yeah, well, you are one. But not for going to Japan. Buck up, McKay."

Rodney offers a glimmer of a smile. "Frozen pizza for dinner?"

"Better be. It's been three days. I'm getting withdrawal."

Rodney kisses him again before he stands and crosses to the freezer, leaving John to rock Finn and stare at the innocent-looking envelope on the table.

*****

By the night before he leaves, Rodney's fretted, planned, and packed his way into a state of dazed exhaustion. Twice John catches him standing stock still in the middle of the living room, frowning as he tries to remember the task he'd meant to complete. He insists on hoarding time with Finn, and John can't blame him – not with three longs weeks stretching out ahead of them both; not when Rodney's so clearly contemplating empty arms and empty hands. John picks up the coffee cups, the empty bottles, the dirty clothes, and leaves Rodney to rock, soothe, burp and cradle Finn as much as he can.

When Rodney comes back from Finn's room that evening, every crumpled angle of his body communicates fatigue. John watches as Rodney tumbles onto the bed, sighing, eyes closing. He sets side the book he's not been reading for close to twenty minutes. "Can't sleep like that," he murmurs, and unbuttons the cuff of Rodney's shirt.

Rodney bats at him with clumsy hands. "I can do it."

John shakes his head. "I want to." He watches as Rodney blinks, as if trying to make the pieces of this puzzle – touch, glance, tone of voice – fit into some pattern he understands.

"S'just a shirt. Shirt and pants and –"

"Let me." John straddles him, his long fingers, still a mite dirty from working on the plane, making swift work of other buttons. He curls a hand in Rodney's t-shirt, encourages him to sit up enough that he can slide the shirt off his arms. Without meeting Rodney's gaze, John unbuckles his belt, watching the familiar dance of his fingertips rather Rodney's face.

"Oh." Rodney goes suddenly pliant beneath his hands. "Oh – you're . . ." He swallows. "John."

"Shhhh." John shakes his head, shifts down the bed so that he can tug at Rodney's pants.

"I'm only – "

"I know."

"Three weeks isn't so – "

John crawls back up the bed and kisses him, since it seems it's the only way to shut him up and besides, he's always found fragile comfort in the rough slide of Rodney's lips, the curl of his tongue, the rasp of his evening stubble. He shivers as Rodney's hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, palm a warm, steady pressure holding John close, preventing the kiss from ending. It's heady and almost painful, the welcome chase of Rodney's breath across his cheek, the way he shifts find that better angle, dips into John's mouth and shivers as John hums. It's a soft, familiar press and pull, this slow, drawn out, unhurried kissing, and John reaches toward the moment where it ceases to be the sum of its parts, when it's no longer mouths and breath and whispers but a limitless sinking into something that he can't give up, never, won't.

"John . . ."

" _No_. Shhh."

Rodney grazes his jaw with swollen lips. "I'll miss you too."

John pulls back, heart pumping double-time, lips pressed together to keep bitter words in and the taste of Rodney close. "Don't. Just – "

"I know," Rodney whispers, "I know," and he raises his head, kisses him again, pulls him back under and winds distraction around them both, gradually stripping away every desperate thought until John's naked, panting, beaded with sweat and trembling hard.

"Rodney – "

"Shhhhh." He presses kisses to the rise of John's belly, hands sliding sweet along hip and thigh.

"Jesus, just – please . . . "

"Shhhhh." Rodney's breath's warm, a fleeting caress against the palm of John's hand before a kiss takes its place, a feint before a slick finger presses back and into John's body. John hisses his encouragement, watches Rodney's face through half-closed eyes, lets his thighs fall open a fraction more and smiles with satisfaction when Rodney growls a response.

"C'mon – "

"You're not . . . rushing me."

Another finger, more pressure, but it's not enough. " _C'mon_."

Rodney bends forward, kisses him, hot and needy, finesse lost somewhere between his attempt to soothe and John's to hurry. He stretches him slowly, relentlessly patient in this at least, holding back until John's shaking, pleading into the uneven solace of their lips. Only then does Rodney pull back, hold his gaze until John can barely stand it, then shift between John's thighs to push slowly inside.

John gasps brokenly. "Yeah," he whispers, pulling at Rodney, wanting him closer, arching into each slow, devastating thrust. "Harder. Want to – " _remember_ , he finishes to himself as Rodney finds the right angle and his world begins to short out one lazy flex of Rodney's hips at a time.

He comes back to himself beneath the gentling touch of Rodney's hand, the graceless scrape of sheet, rough against his stomach as Rodney cleans him up. "Mmmmmm."

"Move over, boneless wonder."

John thinks about protesting at the nickname and Rodney's smug tone of voice, but he hasn't the energy. "Don' wanna move."

"Well I'm not sleeping in a wet spot."

"Wha' wet spot?"

Rodney pushes at him. "The wet spot from the corner of the sheet on _my_ side of the bed, that I used to save you from crippling body hair issues in the morning."

"I came _everywhere_ ," John mumbles happily.

"Yes, yes you did, now _move_ ," Rodney says, elbowing him hard, and John's happy to move if it means Rodney can lie in the middle of the bed and he can roll over and sprawl on top of him.

"Oooof."

"Y'comfy," John manages.

"I get that a lot," Rodney concedes, but John knows a smile when he hears one, and if Rodney thinks it's an onerous burden to be slept upon, he doesn't say so, just pets John's back and occasionally runs a hand through his hair until John falls asleep, his disquiet calmed for the moment.

*****

The first postcard arrives four days later – a picture of a tractor bought in the coffeeshop at the Eastern Iowa Airport, bearing a Texas postmark.

> _Just like old times, see? (Although this is nowhere near ugly enough to meet your standards). DFW impossibly noisy, flight delayed, coffee bearable, news kiosk entirely out of fruit life-savers. There are a frightening number of men here wearing pointy-toed boots. Why why why? RM_

John smiles as he fixes the postcard to the fridge door. He scratches his stubble – he'll have a beard before Rodney gets back if the last four mornings have been any judge of how much time he'll have to himself as a pseudo-single dad – and wonders how to write back. Any letter he'd send to the hotel in Japan would take a good week to get there, and a postcard even longer. He turns the problem over in his mind as he wanders off to tend to Finn, whose hiccoughing cries are beginning to sound through the baby monitor.

(Afternoon naps should last a damn sight longer, John thinks.)

After muddling his way through two diaper changes, two feedings, and an evening of entertainment, three-month-old style (peek-a-boo's a big favorite, especially if a blanket's involved, as is chewing on the ear of a fuzzy caterpillar whose antenna rattle constantly) John's figured out his answer. Soon as Finn's down (in the bassinette that John can cart about the house to keep him close – seems unfair to have him rattling around a whole floor away) John goes online and searches out the most revolting e-card he can find. There are a lot of contenders - [Happy Ugly Truck Day](http://www.dgreetings.com/ugly_truck_day/cards/ugly_truck_day04.html) almost wins out , but is hampered by the lack of music, just like [the inspirational card](http://www.positivetones.com/ecards/compose.php?cardID=motivate008) he's fairly sure would nevertheless make Rodney bang his head against the wall. He settles at last on [a physics joke](http://cards.free.cardfountain.com/ecards/blk-vlad-bl-1008/index.php?aid=103068) with twinkly, happy musical accompaniment and sends it feeling gloriously evil. He grins at Finn, who's fast asleep, before carrying him into the living room so they can both watch Sports Center and fall asleep in their own drool.

It becomes a thing – hideous ecards sent at odd hours of the night. Rodney never mentions them when he calls from Japan, bursting with news, brimming over with disdain for his fellow scientists, sketching out theory after theory in language John barely grasps. He paints outlandish pictures of Tokyo for John, his words like color against canvas, and he listens to news about home with just as much intensity, his silence on the line (his laughter, every breath he catches) communicating he's lonely, though he never says as much.

But perhaps it's not surprising - Rodney never mentions the letters he's been writing either; the notes that begin to arrive nine days after he leaves, inked onto fragile air-mail paper and weighted with affection. They're far from poetry – the first consists of nine post-it notes stuck in sequence to a sheet of stationary, detailing, in cartoon form, the man on flight AA2421, seat 4F, who articulated problems with body odor, comb-overs, tomato juice, and Mormons. The second is a treatise on the vagaries of negotiating customs with diagrams for a super-conductor in your carry-on, and the third an essay on the appalling danger innocent sushi eaters can find themselves in when confronted by knife-toting chefs.

John pretends he isn't listening for tires on gravel, isn't heading to the Brennemans' earlier and earlier to eat up the hours, hasn't grown fond of falling asleep with Finn on his chest and the sofa springs digging into his back. He works diligently on the plane, orders parts and sits for an entire day with the schematics of the engine laid out on the workbench, studying everything thoughtfully and making notes with a mechanical pencil. He nods and smiles and says nothing much when people coo over Finn at the grocery store, cleans up the garage and explains every item to Finn, who's watching from his stroller. His beard continues to grow, he eats baked beans out of a can two nights running, and he digs up ecards [of early UI botanists](http://www.uifoundation.org/cgi-bin/postcard.pl?create=libarchive07) to make Rodney seethe about people who bring disgrace to the name of science. He learns Finn likes Dean Martin better than nursery rhymes, reads his own grandparents' letters over again, and sketches out a tree house that he'll build before summer's end. The days are full, Iowa slowly warming its way toward a reluctant spring, and there are conversations to have with the seed company folks about which sort of tomatoes he's planning to plant, and what line of radishes might survive the local rabbits of doom. Every two days, there's a new letter to read; every night, a new ecard to send, and as many evenings as they can both manage there's a phone call at six or so, Rodney ready to leave for the conference, a full day ahead, John newly home from the Brennemans', warming formula on the stove.

"I'm going to kill Takahashi."

"Hey now. Just because he doesn't know his string loops from his net positive mass . . . "

"I'll show him net positive – "

"Finn's gurgling hi." Stroke of genius – Rodney can be derailed from almost anything, John's discovered, with a well-placed reference to his son.

"He is?"

Except then he sounds wistful and John's guts tend to twist up in unnatural ways. "Yeah. So – maybe you could just, you know, trip him or something."

"Finn?"

"Takahashi."

"He actually fell over a bowl of shrimp of his own free will yesterday. Right in the lobby of the Hyatt."

"What was a bowl of shrimp doing in the lobby of the Hyatt?"

"Something to do with a wedding and a satellite feed from Okinawa," Rodney said, sounding puzzled. "I never did quite get the whole story. Samantha Carter came by and – "

"Samantha who?"

"Oh . . . Air Force know-it-all, thinks she's a genius, excellent legs – "

John quirks an eyebrow. "Apparently, if she could distract you from the shrimp debacle."

"Finn's saying hi?"

John smiles. "Yeah. You wanna talk to him?"

"That would be ridiculous."

"Yeah, you wanna?"

A pause. "Okay."

The letter that comes next morning is written on the back of a napkin. _How about I trade on my looks and fortune to take you to the Stanley Cup, and you take me to a real live baseball game played by men in tight trousers, none of whom we know by name, and who are definitely not involved in Little League_. John folds up the napkin and sticks it in the back pocket of his jeans, smiles and pours his first cup of coffee for the day.

*****

The day Rodney comes home, John wakes long before he has to, anticipation humming beneath his skin. He's eaten toast and peanut butter and drunk two cups of coffee by the time Finn wakes up, spent half an hour shaving off his beard, and another twenty minutes trying to pick which outfit Finn should wear. Rodney's flight doesn't get in until after dinner, and the chances Finn'll make it through the day without formula, puke, or snot getting on his shirt are slim to none, but John's feeling cautiously optimistic as he zips up Finn's jacket, sets him in his car seat, reverses down the lane to head toward Laura's house.

There's a nip in the air that seems designed to remind everyone winter's not wholly done as John pushes open the doors to the barn. The Piper's stripped almost to a shell before him, and he feels a strange sort of loss on her behalf. "I'll put you back together, I swear," he whispers, running a hand along the framing of the fuselage. "Soon as the parts arrive, just watch me."

There are no parts waiting by the workbench yet, so John goes back to what he was doing the day before yesterday – stripping the old paint from the salvageable bodywork, prepping it to accept a new coat when all's said and done. It's tedious work that barely requires thought, and it's about as far removed from the exhilarating rush of flight as anything could be and still be related to a plane. Still, there's value in knowing how something works, how each part relates to the next. John pauses at the thought, cocks his head, realizes he's hearing those words in a voice not his own.

He pushes himself up from the barn floor, reaches for a rag to wipe off his hands, and ambles over to the bench where the engine schematics are still laid out, held in place by a wrench at one corner, an empty coffee cup, a rock, and a can of spray paint. It was his father, he realizes, who taught him about engines – who reluctantly explained the principles of internal combustion, who begrudgingly answered more questions when John's curiosity held longer than the usual span of a seven-year-old child. He runs a finger over the plans on the bench, contemplates the irony of his father sharing the means by which, someday, John would leave – leave home, leave the country, leave the ground. He tries to make that fit with the knowledge that his father fiercely wanted him to stay; was willing to close off as many avenues of John's imagination as he could to keep him close.

John turns his back on the plans, wanders to the open doorway. He thinks of Finn - how he'd already do most anything to let him choose a life that makes him happy; how he can't imagine clipping his wings to keep him close by sheer force of will. He thinks of the tethers his father wound around his hand - jibes, barbs and insults to undercut any impulse in his wife, his son, to soar. And for the first time in his life, he can recognizes fear as the force that straightened his father's spine, flashed spitefully in his eyes, cut a twelve-year-old boy off from grandparents he loved, from the sense of belonging that could have buoyed him when illness stole his mom. He leans against the doorframe, folds his arms and stares out into the fields his father hated, engine diagnostics running through his mind.

*****

Finn falls asleep on the drive to the airport, lulled by the rumble of the car and the dulcet tones of Johnny Cash. He's wearing a tiny, hooded Air Force sweatshirt, his previous sweater having run afoul of snot and milk, and the tuft of hair on the crown of his head is sticking up like he's had close relations with an electrical current in the past half an hour. John covers the car seat with a blanket before he heads across the parking lot and into the main building, pulls it off and throws it over his shoulder once they're safe inside away from the bite of the breeze. He scans the arrivals board – sees that Rodney's plane's not only managed the impossible feat of making it out of O'Hare as scheduled, but also made up time in the air. He strides across the lobby, finds a place to wait, and sets Finn down by his feet, crouching to tuck the blanket around his legs. Finn stirs a fraction, disturbed by the hubbub of passengers streaming out from the gates, and John soothes him by stroking a finger across the back of his hand. The baby settles, and John straightens up.

Rodney's standing not five feet away.

John has no idea what the hell's come over him, but suddenly it's proving difficult to breathe. Rodney smiles – crooked, wide-mouthed smile – and John can't _swallow_ , never mind about get air into his lungs. He can move his arms – he still has that much control over his faculties – and he pulls Rodney in the moment he steps close enough to reach, hugs him just-this-side-of-hard-enough to crack his ribs.

"It's okay, it's okay," Rodney's murmuring against his neck. "I hated it too. Next time you are _so_ coming with me."

John's shaking – he half thinks he ought to be mortified, has no idea what the fuck's come over him – but the next minute there are words on his tongue he's been hiding for months and he's whispering "I love you" against the shell of Rodney's ear. Rodney goes still in the circle of his arms, then hugs him back with such force John can't help but laugh weakly.

"I love you too, you stupid, idiot, stoic _bastard_ ," Rodney mumbles, and John laughs harder. Rodney's laughing too as he pulls back, as he touches John's jaw for just a second. There's a look of wonder on his face - John's only ever seen that look when the last fragment of an equation falls into place beneath Rodney's hands and the universe manages to make a fraction more sense.

"Finn's . . ." He'd meant to say 'sleeping', but when they look down Finn's looking right back, solemn and wide-eyed at the spectacle they're making.

"Hey," Rodney whispers, crouching down, smiling when Finn's face lights up in an enormous grin. "Look at that!" Rodney says, looking up at John in amazement. "Look at that – he recognizes me. He's glad I'm home!"

"Course," John manages fondly, and scrubs a hand over his mouth as he watches Rodney unbuckle Finn, wonders how long it'll be before he can get Rodney alone and kiss him until he's certain he's back for sure.

*****

  
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link to plain text version: [Martha's last letter](http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/92750.html#cutid4)

*****

Rodney has two papers published in March and April, fields phone calls and emails from journalists following up on the Tokyo Initiative (as the conference has come to be called). He has a second laptop wired up in the study, with a dedicated hi-speed line that's secured by the military, the whole thing protected by seventeen screens of passwords and end-user help by a guy in Colorado named Chuck. John doesn't ask what's going on – figures a laptop in the study and the military running a wire through his wall is better than having Rodney _in_ Colorado for whatever ridiculous, scientific endeavor they're engaged in out there – just works on the plane, revises Brenneman's estimate of how long it'll take to finish, and has Jerry come out to look over the instrument panel to see what can be salvaged and what has to be replaced.

The world's shifted subtly since Rodney came home. Things are easier, as if some tension's been broken between them, as if some fear's cracked and shattered into dust, though John can't say what exactly what. He takes the occasional night off to play pool with Brad down Mitch's bar, gets Mrs. Gunderson to babysit when Rodney looks as if he'll pass out without adult conversation that doesn't revolve around super colliders, installs a Playstation and buys a starscape of the way the night sky looked on the day Finn was born. Spring warms early into summer, and it's like the sun's drifted lazily straight into their bones – they all sleep later, act a little more patient, and fights about whose turn it is to throw wet laundry into the dryer end in laughter more often than not.

It's a Sunday in June when John wakes to the uncomfortable sensation of his ear being chewed on, and blinks awake with a groan. "Rodneyyy," he whines when he realizes Finn's in their bed, and reaches to gently disentangle the kid from his ear before scooting him down to lay between he and Rodney both. Finn promptly begins to gnaw at John's elbow.

"He wanted company and I didn't want to get up," Rodney yawns by way of explanation

"So what, y'told him I'd be his teething ring?" John asks. Finn gurgles something profound, so John reaches over, pulls him onto his chest and sets a broad hand on his back. "Listen buddy," he says, voice low. "I don't know what your other dad's been telling you, but your daddies are still sleeping, okay? Reckon you can nap?"

Rodney rolls over onto his side and stares at him. "Daddies?" he repeats.

"Sleep Rodney," John murmurs, and as he drifts off again, swears he feels a kiss to his shoulder. Finn's a warm weight on his chest, and Rodney's a broad wash of safety beside him, so it could be his imagination. Regardless, he smiles.


End file.
